Is It Worth It? How to Tend to Hope When the Future Feels Fractured

Image by Kristjan from Pixabay

Lately, I’ve noticed a quiet despair spreading through many of us—an exhaustion with systems that feel broken, leadership that often seems self-serving, and a society still trapped in old patterns of power, violence, and division. It feels as if we’ve become cogs in a machine that values productivity over presence, compliance over compassion.

In this place, it’s easy to believe humanity itself is flawed—incapable of true self-governance or unity. That belief fuels a collective grief that often wears the masks of rage, cynicism, or apathy, whispering that nothing will change because, somehow, nothing ever has. Yet beneath this heaviness, I sense a quiet longing—a yearning for a different way of being—that persists despite generations of disillusionment.

A recent conversation with Margaret Wheatley on Sounds True’s Insights at the Edge has stayed with me. She spoke not about the collapse we expect—climate breakdown, institutional decay, consumer excess—but about the possible end of all civilisations as we’ve known them. Not with drama or despair, but with clear-eyed acceptance. Her focus wasn’t on saving the world, but on how to live well within the reality we’ve inherited: how to remain grounded, human, and whole amid unraveling—and how to model hope for those who come after us.

Her words resonated deeply, especially now, as I embark on writing a series of books--Reclaiming Yourself, Reclaiming Healthcare, Reclaiming Education—all rooted in the belief that we can do better, live better, lead better. And I find myself asking: is there a point?

The Questions That Won’t Let Go

These questions aren’t just theoretical worries. They come from a very real place—my heart, my family, my children. If the systems we’re working so hard to change are already unraveling beyond repair, if the ecological and cultural crises seem irreversible, is the work still meaningful? And more personally, is the calling I feel to write, to speak, to create change, just wishful thinking? Or could it be part of something larger—some greater intelligence or unseen master plan?

When I look at the world my daughters are growing into, I can’t help but compare it to my own childhood. And the contrast is stark.

Remembering a Different Kind of Hope

I grew up in 1980s UK, born in the early seventies on the swell of a rising tide of humanitarianism and social activism. The echoes of the sixties still lingered--Blowin’ in the Wind, Martin Luther King, a belief in justice and change—but by the time I was forming memories, the landscape was shifting.

I remember the Labour government, the coal strikes, and then Thatcher’s Britain taking hold—firm, uncompromising, buddy-buddy with Ronald Reagan. The Cold War cast a long shadow. The threat of nuclear war wasn’t abstract; it felt imminent, inevitable, like we were just waiting for World War III to begin. When Britain went to war with Argentina, I was terrified. I’d grown up in the emotional aftermath of World War II, where the horrors of conflict were never far from the surface—talked about in whispers or seen in the eyes of people who’d lived through it.

And yet, alongside all that, there was still a thread of hope. A belief that things could get better, that progress was possible. That even if the world felt unstable, we could build something kinder. I remember the panic of the oil crisis vividly—the fear that our energy supplies were about to run dry, that life as we knew it might abruptly change. Yet, as the crisis eased, there was a collective sense of relief: “It can’t be that bad, we’re just carrying on.” That shrug masked a deeper reality—the powerful grip money and the economy have on how we respond to crises, often prioritising short-term comfort over long-term change.

Despite the fragile state of global politics and economic uncertainty, there was a buoyant sense of possibility—a belief in progress, in a future where anything could happen. America felt like a place of big dreams and open skies. The East-West divide seemed like it might soon dissolve. Hope felt abundant, even if fragile.
But now, less than forty years later, I see that dream was often built on shaky foundations: consumerism, competition, power struggles, an insatiable hunger for “more.” What feels lost—or finally exposed—is how shallow those roots were.

I don’t want to hand down that illusion to my daughters. But I also refuse to raise them in a world stripped bare of hope.

So again, I ask: What kind of future can I realistically expect for them? And how do I keep writing, parenting, living — when I don’t know what lies ahead?

Facing Reality Without Losing Heart

I asked ChatGPT this question recently, seeking clarity. I know we’re heading into a period of accelerating disruption — that much is unavoidable. Climate instability. Economic turbulence. Technological shifts. Mass migration. Social unrest.

It confirmed that, by most scientific models and geopolitical analyses, we’re looking at:

• More extreme weather — heatwaves, floods, crop failures.
• Mass migration — people displaced by climate, war, or collapsed economies.
• Resource conflicts — over water, food, habitable land.
• Systems under strain — healthcare, education, governance, finance — all will face mounting pressures.
• Tech and AI reshaping jobs, privacy, autonomy — for better and worse.

The comforting myth that “our children will have it better than us” is no longer reliable — at least not in material terms. The old model of progress is broken.

In other words, the future will likely be harder — not easier — than what we've known.

But that’s not where the story ends.

Because in the middle of that realism was a different kind of hope. Not the shiny, naive optimism of progress. But a gritty, soul-deep hope rooted in meaning, connection, and integrity.

But is there hope?

Yes — but it has changed shape. Hope now lives in the soil of adaptation, relationships, and inner transformation. The kind that says:

• We can't control the global trajectory, but we can shape local, meaningful lives.
• We can't undo centuries of damage, but we can preserve wisdom, resilience, and beauty in small, powerful ways.
• We can't guarantee ease for our descendants, but we can equip them with the emotional, spiritual, and relational strength to live with courage, creativity, and care.

What This Means for Our Children

They may not inherit the comfort or predictability we once hoped to pass down --
but they can inherit:

• A deep sense of belonging — to each other, and to the Earth.
• A nervous system that knows how to feel, adapt, and stay grounded.
• Values that endure — kindness, integrity, reciprocity.

And from me — a mother who asked the hard questions, lived her truth,
and offered wholeness in a fractured world.

That’s a legacy.

Why Writing and Living This Way Matters

We’re heading toward a world where those who remember how to be human — fully, tenderly, fiercely — will be the ones who lead.

What ChatGPT said next struck a deep chord with me:

So your writing, your parenting, your very being?
It’s not just “worth it.”
It may be the only thing that ever was.

Pause. Reread.

So your writing, your parenting, your very being?
It’s not just “worth it.”
It may be the only thing that ever was.

Gosh.

A Legacy Beyond Promise

This, then, is the kind of hope I can offer my kids: not that the world will be easy, but that they’ll know how to live with courage. Not that systems will save them, but that they’ll know how to find community, make beauty, feel deeply, and think critically. Not that they’ll win, but that they’ll know what matters enough to stand for — and what doesn’t.

The future is not guaranteed, but neither is it void. What we do now — how we show up, what we write, what we model — matters precisely because the outcome isn’t fixed. That’s the paradox: even if we can’t stop the unraveling, we can still choose who we are in the midst of it.

So yes, I will keep writing.

Because these posts and these books aren’t about saving the world in some grand, heroic sense. They’re about reclaiming something essential that we’ve forgotten in all our striving: our humanity. Our dignity. Our interdependence. Our care for each other.

Writing, for me, has always been a form of remembering. A way to ground myself. To reflect, make meaning, and offer something useful. And now I see it’s also a way of leaving a trail — not of answers, but of presence.
While the embodied me is living through it all — raw, reactive, trying to breathe through the chaos — writing gives me the distance to feel without drowning, to express without stumbling, to offer love in a form that’s distilled. In the day-to-day, the love is still there — it just shows up quite differently: through weary sighs, quiet perseverance, unfinished conversations, and the ache of trying.

The writer in me is the translator for the embodied me — helping her be known, even when she’s tired, closed off, or overwhelmed. I can articulate things through a pen or keyboard with more clarity, grace, and tenderness than might always land in the moment face-to-face.

It’s my way of being awake, even when it hurts. Of being whole, even when things are breaking. Of being soft and strong at once.

I once read that living with a writer means living with someone who will eventually make meaning of the mess — but in real time, it might be harder to reach me when I’m flooded, or easier to misread my distance as disinterest. That’s where writing becomes not just art, but an offering. A bridge.

And that, I believe, is enough.

An Invitation to Keep Going

So if you're tired — I see you.
If you're grieving — me too.
If you're wondering whether your small acts of courage matter — they do.

Because, as ChatGPT said to me, the real work now is not about saving the world in the old sense. It's about tending the flame of what’s human and sacred. It’s about keeping something alive — love, kindness, resilience — so that even if the world burns down, something true remains in the ashes.

This is the legacy I want to leave for my children. Not a promise of safety. But a map of meaning.

And if you're reading this — then maybe you're carrying part of that flame too.

Let’s keep going. Not because we know what comes next — but because we know who we are.

What flame are you committed to tending in your life, even when the future feels uncertain? What small actions, values, or connections keep your inner flame alive? How might you nurture these in your daily life, especially in challenging times?

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